


Riverboat Queen

by briwd



Category: NCIS, NCIS: New Orleans
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briwd/pseuds/briwd
Summary: The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff - an Admiral with deep roots in the city of New Orleans - is found dead on a riverboat. With political pressure mounting on the investigation from the Oval Office on down, two NCIS teams must find out how the Admiral died, and who might have killed him. Written for akaeve at NFA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**February 9, 2018**

**In the vicinity of New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A.**

**8:22 p.m. Central Standard Time**

 

February was an odd time for a steamboat cruise on the Mississippi River. But when a legend asks for one, it’s all-but-impossible to say no.

 

Samuel L. Jenkins was both U.S. Navy and New Orleans through-and-through. He grew up in a family whose service to their country went all the way back to the Spanish-American War, and whose roots in the Crescent City went back further to when the U.S. purchased the Louisiana Territory from France. Jenkins, like his father, his grandfather and his ancestors, had been a highly-decorated Naval officer, serving with distinction in the Gulf War and in anti-terrorist operations during President George W. Bush’s War on Terror.

 

Jenkins, however, had done what no one else in his distinguished line had ever accomplished: he attained the highest rank any Naval officer could hope to reach, Chief of Naval Operations. That position meant the four-star Admiral was also a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and his staunch conservative convictions put him in favor with the current President and made him a favorite to become the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sometime within the next few years.

 

While not one to abuse his position nor those below him, Adm. Jenkins wasn’t above taking advantage of the perks that came with his rank. New Orleans being home, and its warmer weather, were reason enough for the admiral to call in a favor and rent out one of the city’s legendary steamboats, the _Riverboat Queen_.

 

Of course, he invited family, friends and associates, including a variety of political figures from both Washington and Louisiana.

 

Jenkins had let it be known he was willing to support the current President in any way possible, including political service. In that regard, while New Orleans would forever be his home, the admiral knew any political future he had begun and ended inside the District. If that meant he had to cultivate allies there who could help him parlay his military service into the House or Senate – or into the White House – then that’s what he would do.

 

If that also meant he would invite the national and local media for an announcement, well, he’d do that, too.

 

Thirty-three minutes before his scheduled announcement, Jenkins stood outside on the port side of the _Riverboat Queen_ ’s cabin deck, watching the New Orleans skyline in the distance. His keen senses helped him notice a slender, redhaired woman climb onto the deck on its bow side, nearly 150 feet from where he stood. He turned to his right, watching her until she reached where he stood.

 

“Enjoying the view, Admiral?”, asked the woman, Sarah Porter, the Secretary of the Navy. She was dressed in a black suit with a white blouse – the admiral insisted that everyone on board ‘dress like they were on the job, not some damned ball’ – and had two glasses of wine, one which she offered to the admiral.

 

“Not every day I can get back down here, Sarah,” Jenkins replied, accepting the glass and taking a sip. “Nice weather out. Clear sky, in the sixties. They tell me it’s in the mid-30s back in Washington.”

 

“That would put a cramp on a riverboat cruise, sir,” Porter said with a smile. “You chose well, making your announcement here.”

 

“I couldn’t announce my candidacy for the Senate at some hotel in Georgetown,” Jenkins said, with a grin. “And the seat is ripe to be taken by a no-nonsense challenger, who supports the White House.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Porter said. She kept her personal political views as private as she could, but she couldn’t hide the fact she had voted independent in the 2016 elections. In the current political climate, _that_ worked against her in the minds of some on both the far-right and the far-left. Some of those people wanted her to ‘show courage’ by taking an open, definitive political stand (preferably theirs), but most of the people she worked with knew her job was, first and foremost, the management of the Navy and Marine Corps. Jenkins had never given her any problems during her tenure as SECNAV; in fact, he had gone out of his way to tell the current President she was “the best person for the job, without doubt”; POTUS had listened to the admiral, so far, and so Porter had kept her position.

 

In the back of her mind, though, Porter knew there would come a time when the admiral would ask for a favor. Not tonight, perhaps, but some day. She’d already determined she’d worry about bridge when she crossed it.

 

“Sarah,” Jenkins said, “I’d like you to join my team as my chief of staff.”

 

 _What_?, she thought. “Sir?”

 

“You’re a good organizer, and you know as many people in Washington as I do,” he said. “I’ve interviewed five candidates for the position over the past few weeks. I don’t trust any of them; they’re all insiders. The President’s brought his own people into the White House, and it’s worked out well enough for him so far. I want to follow his lead.”

 

 _I had no idea the bridge was so close_ , she thought, scrambling to give an appropriate response. She liked her job as Secretary of the Navy and felt like she was doing some good; having come from the business world, she considered her job more suited to her skills than running for office. She had been around Washington long enough to learn about the political world, and that life-changing opportunities can come unexpectedly – and disappear just as quickly.

 

Here, on a riverboat, was an opportunity that she knew she didn’t have any time to properly consider, and she wasn’t certain if asking for time was the right move.

 

“I’m flattered, Admiral,” Porter said. “I appreciate your interest and your confidence in me to do that job. May I ask what led you to consider me?”

 

“Your competence,” Jenkins said. “Too many ass-kissers in Washington. You take your job seriously and you respect it and those you serve. That’s been part of the Jenkins family motto since we arrived on the shores of Virginia in 1658 and moved to Louisiana in 1803. Every Jenkins man who’s served his country has lived his life by it. I won’t have people around me who don’t share that conviction.”

 

“Once again, Admiral, I’m flattered,” Porter replied, “and I very much appreciate the opportunity—”

 

“You’ll accept, then?”

 

Jenkins knew Porter wouldn’t accept so soon. Others, he realized, would accept such an invitation on the spot, and quite a few would do anything to get that opportunity. If America was to be truly reformed, he thought, it would need people of conviction in leadership, people like Sarah Porter – and himself.

 

“Sir, I need some time to consider my options, and what my responsibilities would be in each scenario. I am still the Secretary of the Navy, and I cannot leave my duties unfulfilled.”

 

“Nor would I expect you to,” Jenkins replied. “Take the night. Tommy” – Lieutenant Thomas Anders had served as Jenkins’ aide for the past two years, and had laid the bulk of the foundation for the Admiral’s Senate campaign behind the scenes – “can handle things just fine for one more day.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Porter said.

 

Jenkins reached inside his jacket, took a small card out of a pocket, then handed it to Porter. “Tomorrow evening at 7, Emile’s in Georgetown. The best jambalaya anywhere outside Louisiana. The owner’s a long-time friend of the family, and we’ll have time to discuss business – and rest assured, it will be business. Some supporters, men and women of conviction, will be there as well. I expect to see you then?”

 

“Of course,” Porter said.

 

“Then I will take my leave,” he said. “I’m going back to my cabin to go over my final remarks. I’ll see you in a half-hour, Madam Secretary.”

 

As she watched him walk away, Porter realized that had the admiral not kept his relationship with her strictly on a professional basis, she might have declined his campaign invitation on the spot. She had no idea at the moment what she _would_ do – she felt as if something life-changing had just been dumped on her life, with no clue as to whether it was for the good or for evil – but Porter knew she had less than 24 hours to make a decision.

 

The minutes slipped away as she pondered her role as SECNAV, and the other career paths she had considered, so it took a shout from the admiral’s aide to bring her back to the present.

 

“Madam Secretary!”, Lt. Anders said, rather loudly. She then noticed the shock on his face.

 

“Lieutenant?” Porter looked at her watch. _Oh no,_ she thought, _I’ve missed the announcement._ “Lieutenant, please tell the Admiral—”

 

“Something’s happened to the Admiral,” Lt. Anders said, with calmness and urgency. “Please come with me.”

 

Porter followed the Lieutenant down to the Admiral’s cabin. She first saw the bodies of two members of his protection detail in the hallway, and then noticed the Marines standing guard outside the Admiral’s door.

 

“Let me through,” Porter said, making certain not to step on the bodies in the hallway. She didn’t even think about stepping inside, since everything she needed to know was too easily seen. From her vantage point a foot away from the two Marines standing on either side of the doorway, she saw for herself that Admiral Jenkins was dead.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**The _Riverboat Queen_ , outside of New Orleans**

**10:39 p.m. CST**

 

The small lobby connecting the _Riverboat Queen’s_ executive cabins with the stairwells leading to the downstairs ballroom and the upstairs observation desk was crammed full of people: two Marines, two New Orleans Police Department officers, one Secretary of the Navy and two NCIS Special Agents. The Marines and the cops guarded the entrances and exits on the steamboat’s bowside.

 

“I’m sorry for taking your shoes, Madam Secretary. I hope these sneakers are at least comfortable.”

 

“Those cost me $500, Agent Pride,” she said as one of Pride’s team members, Special Agent Christopher LaSalle, put Porter’s pumps into a clear bag.

 

“Sorry, Madam Secretary, but they’re also $500 worth of evidence,” LaSalle said. “You _did_ walk through a portion of the crime scene.”

 

“That I did,” Porter said. “Agent Pride, do you have anything to tell me that I can tell the Joint Chiefs? I’m not going to be able to keep a lid on this for much longer.”

 

“If you can keep a ‘lid’ on this long enough for my team to finish processing the scene, that’ll be fine,” Pride said. “We’ll find out what happened to the Admiral, soon enough.”

 

In the short time Porter had known Dwayne “King” Pride, Special Agent in Charge of NCIS’s New Orleans field office, she had learned a number of things about him, including:

  * he was a proud New Orleanian, born and raised in the Crescent City and loved by most of its residents;
  * his culinary skills were underrated in a city known for its cuisine;
  * he was, in general, both polite and personable.



 

She trusted him, as much as her instincts would allow. She had no doubt he’d be able to handle the case, which promised to be one of the biggest in NCIS’s history.

 

Pride had brought all of his agents onboard the _Riverboat Queen_ to process the case. Special Agents Tammy Gregorio and Sonja Percy were interviewing passengers, while Forensics Agent Sebastian Lund processed the Admiral’s cabin alongside Jefferson Parish Chief Medical Examiner Loretta Wade, who was conducting her initial examination of the Admiral’s body.

 

Porter’s cellphone buzzed. “That’s someone from Washington,” she told Pride. “If you’ll excuse me.”

 

“Of course,” Pride replied, and walked over to LaSalle while Porter went up the stairs – with a Marine following her – to take the call.

 

“King, this thing’s gonna blow up real quick,” LaSalle told Pride. “Unless you’re talking about the President, they don’t get any bigger than the head of the Joint Chiefs. Media coverage’s gonna be huge, every network and newspaper and website you can think of.”

 

“They’re not our focus right now, Chris; the killer is” Pride said. “Call Patton, see what he’s got so far from the surveillance tapes.” Patton Plame, an NCIS computer security analyst assigned to Pride’s team, was at the team’s St. Ann Street headquarters. His job at the moment was to go through the security footage the _Riverboat Queen_ ’s head of security had emailed to NCIS after Pride’s team arrived onboard.

 

“On it,” LaSalle said, and Pride headed back to the crime scene. He saw Wade sitting on a bench the team had brought for her – standing for long periods of time was difficult on her body – while Lund looked around the cabin.

 

“Got something for me?” Pride asked them both. He nodded at Wade, who spoke first.

 

“I can’t begin to tell you for certain until I get him on my table,” she said. “Whether it was natural causes, or someone did this to him, or he did it to himself, I don’t know.”

 

Pride took in Jenkins’s face, and the expression of shock frozen in place. “Give me your best guess. He looked pretty scared of something when he died.”

 

“He could have been scared by someone, or something, enough to cause a heart attack,” Wade said. “Science is going to tell us a lot more than conjecture how this man died.”

 

Lund knelt near the cabin bed, picking up a hair with a pair of tweezers. “I might have something,” he told Pride, who walked over to take a closer look.

 

“A hair?”, Pride asked. Lund had a somewhat eccentric personality, and was sometimes prone to presenting outlandish theories during investigations. Pride accepted Lund’s oddities – he knew the young man, who had just become a federal agent, was solid in forensics – but often had to reign him in, gently and firmly, when he started going off on some wayward tangent. Pride had the gut feeling this was one of those times.

 

“Admiral Jenkins is, _was_ , a notorious clean freak,” Lund said. “I read about it in _New Orleans_ magazine. He once ordered some sailors to scrub his cabin twice because he found someone’s, er, booger, on the washroom floor. Dried up, too--”

 

“Sebastian, _please_ ,” Wade interjected. Lund worked for as her assistant in the Jefferson Parish coroner’s office before he joined Pride’s team, and she knew his ways better than anyone else.

 

“Er, sorry, Loretta,” Lund said. “Of course, there was the time when he found a stain from spilled Pepsi on a sailor’s cot when he did a spot inspection while he was captain of the USS _Pensacola_ , and watched while the sailor scrubbed it out with a toothbrush and a bar of soap. Oh yeah! He saw the crust from a piece of chicken on a plate while having dinner at a restaurant in Mobile—”

 

“We get the point, Sebastian,” Pride said. “The hair?”

 

“Oh – oh right!” Lund glanced at the half-inch strand of hair he held with the tweezers. “Something like this would’ve drove him crazy. The Admiral would have had the cabin scrubbed before he stepped foot in here. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone else in here, either, from the time the cabin was scrubbed to the time he left.”

 

“He would’ve ordered the room kept clear while he was on board,” Pride mused.

 

“That would be another reason for the Marines standing guard: not just to guard his valuables, but to keep people out. That’s also from the magazine story I read. So, you’d need to talk with the cleaning crew to see who prepped the room, and…”

 

Lund’s voice trailed off when he saw Pride staring at him, waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion. “Oh! I should do that. Now.”

 

“Don’t forget to bag the evidence before you ‘do that’,” Pride said with a smile. After Lund put the hair in a small evidence container, and put the container in a sealed bag, he got up to leave for the small office on the main deck that housed the team’s temporary headquarters.

 

Pride put his hand on Lund’s shoulder before Lund stepped out. “That’s good work, Sebastian. We can get DNA off the hair and, at the very least, find if someone was in here who wasn’t supposed to be here.”

 

“We’ll want to question the cleaning crew, too,” Lund added. “To eliminate them as suspects—”

 

“Or put them on the list,” Pride said. “Tell me they would still be on board.”

 

“If one of them killed the Admiral, yeah. No one’s gotten off the boat since the Admiral was found.”

 

“Take LaSalle, or Gregorio or Percy, with you. We’ll want to question each person who was in the vicinity of this room from the time he got on board. Put them in our office, the Green Room and, if you have to, the library or the Mardi Gras Room.” The Green Room was on the main deck, down the hallway from the team’s office and next to the Captain’s Cabin. The Library and the Green Room were on the Louisiana deck, just above the main deck.

Lund left, and Pride turned back to Wade, who looked skeptical. “Loretta, talk to me.”

 

“A hair, Dwayne?”, she said. “I see that look in your eye. You think there’s something to that hair.”

 

Pride picked up the container with the hair and looked it over. “I do, Loretta.”

 

“Now, we’ve both seen cases resolved with a hair—”

 

“The Navy SEAL at the Days Inn in Houma; the hair belonged to a dog that mauled him to death and was owned by a jealous neighbor. The Petty Officer who was about to get married in Beaumont to a Houston Astros player; _that_ hair belonged to the victim’s ex-girlfriend.”

 

“Those cases were solved with a lot of evidence, Dwayne; they didn’t hang on a hair.”

 

“You think this” – Pride held up the small, cylindrical container – “won’t lead anywhere.”

 

“What I _think_ ,” Wade said, “is that the answer’s inside the Admiral. What that answer is, we’ll find out when I put him on my table.”

 

“I’ve never doubted you, Loretta. This hair might be a piece of the puzzle, then.”

 

“That’s how I’d look at it. But then again, I’m a medical examiner, not a criminal investigator, and I’ve never doubted you, either.”

 

“Then what were you doing, just now?”

 

“Playing devil’s advocate,” she said with a grin. “There is something else I need to talk to you about. They wouldn’t let my people on board.”

 

“The fewer people who know about this, the better as far as keeping a lid on this goes,” Pride said. “You need help with the body.”

 

“He’ll have to go in the freezer until he’s released to me and we get him off the ship.” When a body was taken to a morgue for the medical examination, it was often stored in a freezer-like area; that slowed the rate of decomposition, allowing more time for the examiner to do an autopsy.

 

Wade knew using the ship’s freezer as a storage area for the body wouldn’t go over well with the crew, but it had to go somewhere. She didn’t know how much longer she’d or the body would be here, and it was better off in a 32-degree area next to the ice cream than in a 72-degree cabin with the air conditioner running. First thing, though, was getting the Admiral’s body to the freezer. “Dwayne, if you could get some of those Marines outside to help—”

 

Wade abruptly stopped talking when she saw Lund standing in the doorway, looking as if he had something he had to tell her and Pride both – which he did. “Sebastian?” Pride said. “Got an update on that cleaning crew?”

 

“Secretary Porter wants to talk to you, King,” he said. “Now.”

 

Pride followed Lund to the lobby – Wade decided she would stay with the body until someone came to move it to the freezer – and saw a rather upset LaSalle standing to the right of Porter, who look ready to apologize profusely. Gregorio and Percy, both slightly less upset than LaSalle, stood to Porter’s left.

 

“Agent Pride, I am sorry, but your team will no longer be conducting this investigation,” she said.

 

“I beg your pardon, Madam Secretary?”

 

“It’s out of my hands. I was overruled by the Secretary of Defense, who got his marching orders from the President himself. They want someone they implicitly trust to run the investigation.”

 

“Ma’am, we can handle this as well as anyone—” LaSalle interjected, abruptly stopping at a glance from Pride, but no less upset.

 

“Christopher,” Pride said to LaSalle, before addressing Porter. “Madam Secretary, Admiral Jenkins is one of our own. New Orleans born and raised. I’ve known the man since I worked in Washington—”

 

“Again, I apologize, Agent Pride, but this is out of my hands,” Porter said. “Perhaps you’ll take some solace in knowing who will take over the investigation.”

 

“Excuse me, Madam Secretary,” Gregorio said, “Is it someone from D.C.?”

 

“It is.”

 

“It’s the FBI,” Percy said, referring to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which had recently investigated Pride and the NCIS New Orleans office. “Did Isler—”

 

“No, he did not,” Porter said of FBI Special Agent Raymond Isler, who was assigned to its New Orleans field office and had gone from the team’s antagonist to its ally.

 

“Then who?”, asked LaSalle. He then glanced at Pride, who looked as if he knew.

 

“The investigators are someone familiar to both yourselves and to me,” Porter said, “and I trust Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his people just about more than anyone else in Washington.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**February 10, 2018**

**New Orleans**

**Naval Air Station New Orleans**

**3:43 a.m. CST**

 

As the leader of the Major Case Response Team at NCIS headquarters in Washington, Gibbs shouldered a host of responsibilities, including making sure that his team made it to the crime scene for the case assigned to them. That was true whether the scene was inside the District of Columbia, or an adjacent state like Virginia, or on a riverboat in Louisiana holding the body of a certain Admiral.

 

When the President himself insisted that the team get to the crime scene “as fast as possible, NO excuses!” – a direct quote from POTUS’s email to Director Leon Vance – Gibbs got his team there, however possible, as fast as possible.

 

The President was very helpful in arranging transportation: a Marine C-20G Gulfstream jet awaited the team at Andrews Air Force Base near Washington, and it had enough room to accommodate Gibbs’s entire team.

 

At the President’s insistence, Gibbs brought along his _entire_ team. None of them were happy to have their Friday nights interrupted by a trip to a place outside their jurisdiction. However, as Vance told them before they boarded the jet, “in this case, people, what POTUS wants ‘ _trumps’_ all of our plans.”

 

They found out during the flight why they were being sent over a thousand miles from home, and that went over like a lead balloon with all of them, especially Gibbs. He and Pride were friends, going back to their days working under Mike Franks when he led the Washington MCRT. Contrary to his deserved reputation of not wanting to work with anyone – including fellow NCIS agents – outside his team, he hated the very idea of taking jurisdiction from his friend.

 

That alone kept him awake during the two-hour plane ride.

 

The rest of his team got as much sleep as they could during the flight. Senior Special Agent Tim McGee was the first to wake up, about five minutes before the jet landed. The next to wake up was NCIS Acting Medical Examiner Jimmy Palmer, followed by Special Agents Ellie Bishop and Nick Torres; Clayton Reeves, a British intelligence agent assigned as a liaison to NCIS’s Washington office; and NCIS Chief Forensic Scientist Abby Sciuto, who almost never went to a crime scene.

 

This was the exception, as the President’s very urgent ‘request’ to Vance named _everyone_ Gibbs worked with. That meant pulling Abby out of an all-night sleepover sponsored by her parish church, wearing her black-and-white-and-grey pajamas highlighted by a series of smiling skulls patterned on the top and the pants.

 

Gibbs smiled as he saw her in her outfit, wiping the sleep from her eyes. His ‘lab rat’ had been part of his team for 17 years, and he had seen her become one of the finest experts in her field in the entire world; if NCIS lost her, it wouldn’t be able to replace her, no matter how much he would tell Vance and everyone else they’d need to ‘move on’. Abby was like a daughter to him, and he was glad she was part of his team, and part of his family. He often thought Shannon, his first wife, and Kelly, his and Shannon’s daughter, would have loved Abby to death and she would have loved them just as much.

 

The pilot announced over the intercom the plane would taxi to a stop shortly, and Gibbs told his people to gear up. Each of them looked through their ‘go’ bags, full of items from clothing and personal toiletries to notebooks and pens. Evidence bags and other crime scene-related items were in a foot locker in the luggage department. Gibbs’s team was as ready as it could be, and Gibbs knew whatever they were lacking, they could get from the local field office or from the New Orleans Police Department.

 

After he descended the stairs from the plane onto the tarmac, McGee pulled out his iPhone. He saw a text from his wife Delilah, groaned loudly enough to get the rest of the team’s attention, and quickly opened up Twitter.

 

“Text from Delilah,” McGee said, as Gibbs looked at the phone screen over McGee’s shoulder. “It says…oh no…The President’s broken the news about Admiral Jenkins.”

 

“He did what?”, Torres said. “Nobody’s supposed to say anything…right?”

 

“He’s the President,” Bishop said. “He can do whatever he wants.”

 

“Or what he thinks,” McGee said. “Here’s the tweet: ‘ _Admiral Samuel Jenkins, a loyal American and great man of integrity, was killed onboard the Riverboat Queen last night. I picked up the phone and had the best investigators in America sent to New Orleans. They WILL find the perpetrators!_ ’”

 

“Can he do that?”, Reeves asked. “Aren’t there laws preventing that sort of thing?”

 

“There _are_ reasons to keep this kind of thing quiet,” Torres added. “Why couldn’t that guy—”

 

“Why don’t we focus on the case?”, Gibbs interjected, intending to get the team back on track. He nodded towards a helicopter waiting in the distance. “Let’s go.”

 

The Navy UH-1Y Venom utility helicopter sat 80 feet away, ready to take the team to the riverboat. Gibbs and his people boarded, secured themselves in their seats, and sat as the helo lifted into the clear, cool night sky. The trip would take all of three minutes.

 

“I bet there’s going to be a lot of pretty unhappy campers on that ship,” Palmer said.

 

“They’ve all been there for hours, Palmer,” Bishop said. “I’d be pretty unhappy, too.”

 

“The local NCIS team isn’t gonna be happy to see _us_ ,” Torres said. “I worked with them last year. They’re capable of handling this. Us being sent here, that’s an _insult_ to them.”

 

No one on the helo disagreed. “Gibbs, what are you gonna tell Pride when you see him?”, asked Abby.

 

He said nothing. McGee turned his head to look at Gibbs, and pondered his boss’s expression for a moment or two. Then, the younger man smiled.

 

**3:56 a.m.**

**The Riverboat Queen**

 

“You want to _what_?”, Porter shouted.

 

She, Gibbs and Pride were inside the small room assigned as the temporary NCIS headquarters, while the rest of their respective teams stood nearby in the hallway. Porter’s outburst was the only thing heard so far from the hallway.

 

“She obviously doesn’t like his idea,” LaSalle said. “You think she’ll go for it, McGee?”

 

“We won’t know until they come out and tell us,” McGee replied. “She doesn’t have to ‘go for it’. If her bosses don’t like it—”

 

“POTUS,” Torres interjected.

 

“I still can’t believe he did that,” Lund said. “Even if the admiral was his friend.”

 

“Probably pissed off about losing an ally,” Gregorio said. “I spent years in Washington, like you guys” – she looked at McGee – “and I’ve seen politicians do and say all kinds of things. And before anyone says anything, yes, if he wants, he could reassign another team.”

 

Inside the room, Porter handed Gibbs her cellphone. “He can’t. This is an NCIS case,” Reeves said.

 

“I know of one case where the House Speaker asked for FBI to be assigned to investigate a case in Wisconsin,” Gregorio said. “Technically, ICE had the lead. But the FBI ran the show.”

 

“I bet you know more than you’re letting on,” Percy said with a smirk.

 

“I was part of the team,” Gregorio added. “The ICE agents were pissed. But both directors signed off on it, and the Speaker was happy, and since _he_ was happy, the directors were happy. By the way, we needed the ICE agents’ help to solve the case.”

 

“Just like you need us,” LaSalle said. “No offense, McGee, and I’m not mad at you guys, but—”

 

“This is your town,” McGee replied. “And should be _your_ case. I understand, completely.”

 

The door to the room opened suddenly, and Pride held the door open for Porter. Gibbs followed her into the hallway. “I hope _she_ understands,” Lund said.

 

Porter held a hand up to get the other team members’ attention. “I am informing you this will be a joint investigation. Agents Gibbs and Pride will be the co-leads,” she said. The New Orleans team members were relieved, and both a little surprised and very pleased that Pride was jointly leading the investigation. “I don’t have to tell you there is a lot of attention on this case. National attention, all the way up to the White House.”

 

The helo ferrying the Washington team to the riverboat flew directly over a growing mass of media members gathered along the river shore, just outside of River Road in Westwego. CNN, Fox News, msnbc and ZNN had reporters on the scene, as did the local broadcast network affiliates, filing or preparing for live reports.

 

“I don’t like being on TV,” Abby said, garnering a few chuckles among the group.

 

“Director Vance will handle the media,” Pride said. “Right now, we focus on the case.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**February 10, 2018**

**New Orleans, NCIS field office**

**4:13 p.m. CST**

Dusk fell on the Crescent City, and only Gibbs, Pride and Plame were in the field office, along with two NOPD officers standing guard at the entrance. Their agents were out following up on numerous leads – none of which were going anywhere. Abby and Lund were working with Wade and Palmer in the Jefferson Parish Coroner’s Office trying to find the cause of the Admiral’s death; Gibbs’s advice to “find harder” wasn’t bearing much fruit either.

 

Pride came into the squad room with two plates full of gumbo, for Plame and Gibbs. He had wondered if Plame would wilt under Gibbs’s infamous glare – or if Plame would try to push back with some of his own trademark sass. As he approached the men, though, he saw Plame working hard, going through video from the riverboat and the various phones and cameras appropriated from the passengers. Gibbs watched over Plame’s shoulder, content to let the man work.

 

Pride breathed a sigh of relief. There was enough pressure on the combined team as it was; he didn’t want to have to play referee – or confront his friend, and former coworker.

 

“Patton, I’m ordering you to take five and get some chow,” Pride said, laying a bowl down on the side of a desk near where Plame had parked his wheelchair. Plame looked up at Pride, nodded, then made a few keystrokes on his laptop before picking up the bowl.

 

“Plame’s doing a damned good job,” Gibbs said before taking the other bowl of gumbo from Pride. “Helluva lot of video to go thru. He’s efficient. Almost as good as McGee.”

 

“Almost?”, Pride said, with a raised eyebrow. He knew Gibbs would – had – to stand up for one of his own people, and McGee had a reputation throughout NCIS as a world-class technical wizard. Pride wouldn’t let the comment go unanswered, though, without standing up for one of his own people. “Patton’s a helluva computer wiz, himself. He taught McGee a thing or two last year, when Tim and Torres were down here.”

 

“Heard about that, too, when McGee got back to Washington,” Gibbs said, between bites. “Why didn’t you ever think about opening up a restaurant?”

 

“Suppose I love this too much,” Pride said, looking around the squad room. “I love being in the kitchen, Jethro, but not all day and night.” He felt a familiar buzz in his pocket and pulled out his smartphone to read a text. “That’s Gregorio. The lead near the Superdome didn’t pan out.”

 

Gibbs felt a buzz in his jacket pocket and pulled out his own cell phone. “McGee. The lead at Tulane University didn’t pan out, either.”

 

Pride read another text from his phone. “LaSalle. Nothing from that lead in the Lower Ninth Ward. People we’re accountable to aren’t going to like that.”

 

“Nothing we can do about it, King, except solve the case,” Gibbs said. “Why don’t you give me the recipe for this when this case gets wrapped up?”

 

“You kidding, Jethro? That’s a closely-guarded family recipe, like Colonel Sanders’ herbs and spices. I give it to you, you might put me out of business.”

 

“Or expand the franchise. Have someone get you some steaks, I’ll make you a _meal_.”

 

“I remember those cowboy steaks of yours, Jethro. When we could get Mike Franks over to your house, and Dan and Louie…man, remember the card games?”

 

“That’s where I learned how good Mike was at poker,” Gibbs said. “He—”

 

Gibbs paused when he saw Wade, Palmer, Abby and Lund appear on the monitor hanging from the ceiling. Pride followed Gibbs’s eyes to the monitor, and hoped they had something of substance to tell them. He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“The Admiral died of an overdose of a mixture of potassium chloride and calcium gluconate,” Wade said. “He drank it.”

 

“Drank it?”, Gibbs said.

 

“Whomever gave it to him put it in a glass of whiskey, or water,” Palmer added. “We found both in his stomach during the autopsy.”

 

“The concentration of the potassium chloride and calcium gluconate was enough to kill a horse,” Abby said. “He wouldn’t have lasted very long after drinking it.”

 

“He may have went into cardiac arrest seconds after drinking whatever the killer put the drugs in,” Lund said.

 

“That would have drawn the attention of his protection detail,” Pride said, “and he would have _had_ to shoot them quick.” The two dead men found outside the Admiral’s room were former police; one was an ex-Navy SEAL, the other a veteran of the NOPD’s SWAT unit.

 

“Oh! We ran ballistics on the bullets that killed those guys,” Abby said. “.22 Long Rifle cartridge, which is used in a SIG Sauer Mosquito—”

 

“That you can put a silencer on,” Gibbs added. “So the killer is someone the Admiral knew, and is a helluva fast shot, to get the jump on two ex-cops.”

 

“And he was on the boat, and may still _be_ on the boat,” Pride said. “Jethro, I’d like to send—”

 

“King! I think I have something,” Plame said, loudly. “New video.”

 

“Put it up on the monitor and patch everyone in at Loretta’s office, Patton” Pride said. “Tell us what we’re looking at.”

 

Plame put the video up. “This is from a Galaxy S6 smartphone, taken by the nine-year-old daughter of a donor to the Admiral’s campaign. She apparently cracked the door just enough to see what was going on, and got this shot.”

 

The video froze on the image of a slim white male with long brown hair and a beard that hung to his chest, dressed in a grey shirt and black pants, holding a weapon in his right hand. The video resumed running, showing the man staring at the camera for three seconds before running the other way.

 

“We need to talk to that little girl,” Gibbs said.

 

“Gregorio and Bishop are closest to the boat, Jethro,” Pride said. “They can be there in 20 minutes.”

 

“I want to talk with her myself,” Gibbs said. “Have Bishop and Gregorio meet us at the boat.”

 

“You mean Gregorio and Bishop,” Pride said with a grin that disappeared when he looked back up, at the still shot of the prime suspect Plame had just put on the monitor. “Patton. Send that photo out to NOPD and every law enforcement agency ASAP. Tell them not to release it to the media until Gibbs authorizes it. Make sure our people get it first.”

 

“Roger that,” Plame said.

 

**Riverboat Queen**

**5:12 p.m. CST**

 

The name of the girl who shot the video was Kelly Anne Ferrier, the daughter of Shannon Ferrier. The mother herself was known in New Orleans as an influential businesswoman, a contributor to Republican candidates local and national, and as the owner of the Crescent City Soccer Club franchise.

 

Gibbs, who didn’t believe in coincidences, hoped the names of the mother and daughter would prove to be an omen that worked in his and his team’s favor.

 

While Pride, Gregorio and Bishop began looking for any sign of the man in the video, Gibbs met Kelly Anne in the boat’s dining area. He saw her playing with her Barbie dolls, and for a moment he saw his own long-dead daughter sitting there.

 

Gibbs allowed the image to bring him a moment of joy, not melancholy, as he had countless times before since he lost both his wife and daughter years before.

 

Shannon Ferrier sat next to Kelly Anne, with Gibbs’s consent. “Mr. Gibbs?”, she said, standing and extending her hand as Gibbs approached.

 

“Call me Gibbs,” he said, shaking Shannon Ferrier’s hand. “This is Kelly Anne?”

 

“She is. Say hello to Mr.—ah, sorry, Gibbs, honey.” The mother tapped her daughter on her shoulder, and Kelly Anne looked up.

 

“Hi, Mr. Gibbs,” Kelly Anne said, with a smile.

 

“Hi, Kelly Anne,” Gibbs replied, sitting next to the little girl. “You know, my daughter used to have some dolls just like those.”

 

Kelly Anne straightened one of the Barbie dolls’ hair with a toothbrush. “Really?”, she said, earnestly.

 

“Yep,” Gibbs said. “She and I would sit with them, and her stuffed bear, and have tea. You ever do that with your mom?”

 

Shannon Ferrier smiled.

 

“Yes, Mr. Gibbs,” Kelly Anne replied, “me and mommy and Mr. Bear and Barbie and Skipper and Garfield have lunch every Saturday, when we can. Sometimes at home, sometimes outside, sometimes at work.”

 

“I bring her along with me as much as I can,” Shannon Ferrier explained.

 

“Does your daughter have a playhouse, Mr. Gibbs?”, Kelly Anne said. “I have one in our house.”

 

“We had a treehouse,” he said, “in our back yard that I built all by myself.”

 

“Wow! I bet that took all day!”, Kelly Anne said, excitedly.

 

“It did, and a few more days, too.” Gibbs smiled, at Kelly Anne’s exuberance and at his own Kelly’s enjoyment of the treehouse he built her years before.

 

“Honey,” Shannon Ferrier said to her daughter, “Gibbs is here to talk with us. He’s here to ask you about something.”

 

“Is it about the bad man?” Kelly Anne’s countenance changed, almost instantly, to trepidation and fear.

 

“Yes, it is, Kelly Anne. Your mother tells me you were very brave and very smart. You know that a lot of adults wouldn’t have done what you did?”

 

“I heard him shouting at the Admiral and the Admiral shouting back. Then I heard the men fall to the ground outside. I had mommy’s extra phone. She taught me how to call her if something bad happened.”

 

“Kelly Anne was a little under the weather last night,” Shannon said. “I bring her along with me as often as I can. My schedule is busy, but I determined when I had her I wouldn’t be one of those parents who has someone else watch their child while they go off galavanting—”

 

“Ms. Ferrier?”, Gibbs interjected. “You said Kelly Anne was under the weather?”

 

“I had a tummy ache,” Kelly Anne said with a frown. “I feel better today.”

 

“Mild stomach ache,” Shannon added. “I spoke with the ship’s doctor. He recommended leaving her in the infirmary. She didn’t want to go, though.”

 

“So you left her?”, Gibbs said, keeping his agitation at the mother’s decision to himself.

 

“No time,” Shannon said. “I was dragged away by some donors. When we learned what happened to the admiral I ran straight to the floor, and I had to argue with them to let me get to my daughter.”

 

“’They’?”

 

“The guards. The Marines. One of them brought Kelly Anne to me.”

 

Gibbs sighed. He began to challenge Shannon Ferrier’s decision-making when something his father, Jackson Gibbs, would say once in a while came to mind: _There’s a time and a place for everything, son. Sometimes you gotta deal with the most important things first._

 

The video, Gibbs thought. Focus on the video.

 

“Kelly Anne, tell me what you heard outside the room last night.”

 

Kelly Anne looked at her mother, who nodded her approval. “Mr. Gibbs, my tummy was hurting a little and I was going to the bathroom. Then I heard shouting. I heard him shouting.”

 

“The bad man.”

 

“The bad man. He said a bad word.”

 

Gibbs leaned in to Kelly Anne just a bit, to get eye level with her. “You don’t have to repeat the bad word that he said,” he said softly, “but can you tell me what else he said?”

 

“He said ‘you owe me’ and ‘I’ll end you’. That’s what I remember. Then I heard someone else yelling like he was hurt, and someone falling in the hall. That’s when I started to leave the room.”

 

“Why would you do that, Kelly Anne?”

 

“To see what was going on. Mommy told me I should’ve shut the door tight. But I knew the Admiral was there and I thought I might be able to help.”

 

“That’s a very brave thing to do, Kelly Anne,” Gibbs said.

 

“But I stayed in my room, and cracked the door just a little bit more, to see.”

 

“Was that when the bad man passed your room?”

 

“Yes,” she said. Gibbs saw a glimpse in her eyes of the fear he thought she must have felt when the suspect saw her. “He’s still out there, isn’t he?”

 

“We’re going to get him. That video you took will help us a whole lot.” Gibbs smiled, and hoped he was able to reassure her. “He saw you, didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, and I saw him, too.”

 

“What did he do when he saw you, Kelly Anne?”

 

The little girl looked off to the side, out the window. “He saw me, and then he ran.”

 

“Did he do anything? Did he say anything to you?”

 

“No. He looked at me, and left…Mr. Gibbs, are you with the police?”

 

Gibbs smiled, and pulled off his NCIS cap.

 

“See this?” he said. She nodded. “I work for a federal government agency that looks into when bad things happen to people in the Navy and the Marine Corps, people like the Admiral. We’re like the police, and I promise you, we’re going to find this man and make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.”

 

“Good,” Kelly Anne said, then turned her attention from Gibbs. He turned his head to see who she was looking at, and saw Gregorio sprinting towards him, Bishop not too far behind.

 

“Gibbs, we found something,” Gregorio said. “You need to take a look.” Bishop caught Gibbs’s eye and nodded her assent.

 

“Let’s go,” Gibbs said, turning to excuse himself. “Ms. Ferrier, thank you, and Kelly Anne, thank you.”

 

“Mr. Gibbs,” Kelly Anne said, “did you say you have a little girl?”

 

Gibbs paused. “I had a little girl, a long time ago. I miss her very much.”

 

Kelly Anne paused herself, until she figured out what Gibbs was hinting at. “Oh.”

 

“Gibbs, I’m sorry,” Shannon Ferrier added. “She didn’t mean to—"

 

“Is she in heaven?”

 

Gibbs paused. “Yes, she is. If anybody’s in heaven, she’s there, and her mother, and a whole lot of other good people.”

 

“People like the Admiral?”

 

He smiled. “Yep. People like the Admiral.”

 

“Good. He was nice. He brought me ice cream. Maybe he’s up there now, and he’ll bring your little girl some ice cream, too.”

 

Gibbs pulled himself away from Shannon and Kelly Anne Ferrier, and followed Gregorio and Bishop to a supply closet on the lowest floor. Pride stood by the door, waiting for them, and there were police on both ends of the hallway. “What am I looking at?”, Gibbs said.

 

“Hair,” Pride said. “Lots of it, and what you might expect if someone with long hair and a long beard decided he needed to cut it all off at the last second.”

 

“Bishop, Gregorio. Bag it and get it to Abby and Lund,” Gibbs said.

 

“We were waiting for you, Gibbs,” Bishop said. “We also bagged this before you got here.” She held up three large evidence bags, one with a grey shirt, another a pair of black pants and the third with a pair of brown shoes. “Don’t worry, Gregorio took photos.”

 

“Speaking of, I just got a test from Patton,” Pride said. “He says ‘I thought the guy looked familiar, like I had seen him before in public. I think I know who’.”

 

Pride pulled up the attachment from Plame’s text and put it up on his smartphone screen. On the left was a close-up of the man from the video that Kelly Anne shot; on the right, a driver’s license photograph.

 

“You know this guy, Pride?”, Gregorio said.

 

“Not personally, just by reputation,” he replied. “He was one of Mayor Hamilton’s flunkies. ‘Slaw’.”

 

“ _’Slaw’_ , Dwayne?”, Gibbs said.

 

“Stanislaus Law, who’s now our prime suspect.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**February 10, 2018**

**New Orleans, NCIS field office**

**7:16 p.m. CST**

 

The combined team – minus Wade, who was conducting an autopsy on a suicide victim for the NOPD, and Palmer and Sciuto, who were on a commercial flight back to Washington – gathered in the bullpen. Two photos of the suspect, Sebastian Law, showed on the monitor hanging from the ceiling.

 

“We’re looking for a guy named Slaw?”, Torres said.

 

“That’s his nickname,” Pride replied. “Sebastian Law was best known, until today, as a long-time local political operative. He’s worked in the private industry and in government, most recently as the assistant chief of staff for former Mayor Douglas Hamilton.”

 

“Hamilton was as crooked of a ‘public servant’ as you’ll find,” LaSalle added. “Gave Pride, and the rest of us” – referring to the New Orleans-based team – “plenty of headaches before Pride finally put him away.” Pride arrested Hamilton in May 2017 after several incriminating personal emails – and a sex tape involving the former mayor -- were leaked to the media.

 

Plame rolled to the center of the room and hit a button on the remote that put the closeup from the video in the center of the monitor. “Something about that guy was familiar, like it was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t quite figure out who he was,” Plame explained. “Then I figured it out: he worked for Hamilton. I searched through photographs, and sure enough,” – Plame hit another button, showing two photos of Law at a Hamilton campaign event and at Hamilton’s inauguration – “there he was.”

 

“Who was Law to Hamilton?”, Gibbs asked.

 

“A behind-the-scenes operator,” Pride said. “He ‘encouraged’ anyone who was a potential threat to Hamilton to play nice, or else. It didn’t matter whether they were on the city council, or on the board of directors of one of the corporations in town, or a private citizen. He helped make potential problems go away, but never in a manner that could get himself thrown in prison. After Hamilton was thrown out of office, Law went to work for Craig Boudreaux, who’s been in the state Senate since 2008.”

 

Plame hit another button, and the front page of the website for Boudreaux’s U.S. Senate campaign page appeared. “Didn’t Boudreaux support Hamilton when that hacker leaked the sex tape?”, Percy asked.

 

“Yep, and withdrew it when it was clear the sex tape was real,” Gregorio said. “Obviously, Law found himself someone else to ‘help’.”

 

“You think this Slaw – sorry, Law – guy helped make the Admiral go away for somebody?”, Torres asked. “Like a competitor for the Senate seat?”

 

Gibbs stared at Torres, expecting him to come to the same conclusion he himself had already come to.

 

“We have to look at it,” Lund said, looking up from his smartphone. “Boudreaux’s Twitter account says he’s in Shreveport tonight to talk to the local chapter of the Louisiana Family Council, at 7:30.”

 

“I’d want to know if Hamilton’s calling the shots, somehow,” McGee said.

 

“Law and Boudreaux would have to keep their distance, though,” Bishop said. “They couldn’t afford to be associated with Hamilton.”

 

“What if they’re still talking with Hamilton through proxies?”, Reeves added. “Third parties. Criminals get messages out from prison to the outside all the time.”

 

“Yeah, but Hamilton telling them to kill off Boudreaux’s competition?”, Gregorio said. “What’s in it for him?”

 

“Maybe nothing; he’s the one behind bars,” Lund replied. “Boudreaux’s the one out there trying to get the Republican nomination.”

 

“Did Hamilton or Boudreaux, or Law, have any history with the Admiral?”, Gibbs asked. “Anything that would give any of them reason to kill the man?”

 

“The Admiral wasn’t known for commenting on local matters, at least publicly,” Lund said. “I’d figure his job leading the Joint Chiefs would take up all his time.”

 

“See if he ever said anything about Hamilton or Boudreaux,” Gibbs said to Lund. “Bishop, contact Colonel Williams at the Pentagon, tell him I need a favor, then ask him if he was aware of any connections.”

 

“Who’s Colonel Williams?”, Pride asked Gibbs.

 

“Worked with him on a case around Christmas in ’07,” Gibbs replied. “How long would it take to fly from here to Shreveport?”

 

“Just over three hours,” Pride said. “You want to go up there?”

 

“Not me, or you,” Gibbs said, looking at LaSalle and McGee.

 

“Looks like we got volunteered, Chris,” McGee said.

 

“Christopher, you and Tim will need to confirm where he is now, and if he’s in Shreveport, ask our friends from the FBI to detain him until we can get there to talk to him,” Pride said.

 

“And if he’s not there, King?”, LaSalle said.

 

“Then we expand the search for Boudreaux. Our main priority, though, is finding Sebastian Law. Let’s release his photo to the media and tell them he’s a person of interest in the case. Sebastian, call the FBI office in Shreveport and the Shreveport Police Department, ask them to verify Boudreaux’s at that event and to hold him until we can get there.”

 

“On it,” Lund said.

 

“LaSalle, McGee. I want you both ready to go to Shreveport and bring him in,” Gibbs said. “Contact NAS New Orleans, arrange for transport.”

 

“On it, Gibbs,” LaSalle said.

 

“Bishop will stay here and look into connections between Admiral Jenkins and Law, Hamilton and Boudreaux,“ Gibbs added. “Torres, Percy, Gregorio, Reeves, check with NOPD, then go back out there and keep looking for Law.”

 

“Percy, Gregorio, Carl’s due to check in with us,” Pride said of NOPD Captain Carl Estes, who was coordinating NOPD’s search for Law. “When you find Law, let Gibbs and I know.”

 

“You two going to talk to Hamilton?”, Percy asked.

 

“Whether he likes it or not,” Gibbs replied.

 

**Houma, Louisiana**

**Houma State Correctional Facility**

**9:46 p.m. CST**

 

“I had nothing to do with what happened on that boat,” Hamilton said to Gibbs and Pride.

 

Hamilton, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, had both wrists cuffed to a table in the facility’s designated interrogation room. To Gibbs, Hamilton seemed slightly annoyed and fatigued; he chalked the latter up to the time – Hamilton, like all other prisoners, was expected to get out of bed at 5 a.m. sharp – and the former to the ex-mayor’s intense dislike of Pride.

 

Pride hadn’t let his personal feelings interfere in the interrogation thus far, and sat back while Gibbs conducted the interview.

 

“You’ve had no contact with Law since you were arrested?”, Gibbs asked.

 

“None of my former associates come by to visit. None of my enemies, either,” Hamilton replied, staring at Pride.

 

“I’m busy,” Pride shot back. “What we’re wondering is how busy you’ve been recently.”

 

“ _Really_ , Dwayne?”

 

“In terms of the Admiral’s murder.”

 

“Oh, I thought you cared. Keeping your nose clean down there, Dwayne?”

 

“Hamilton,” Gibbs growled. “Again. Did you communicate with Law in any way, shape or form since you got here?”

 

“No, Jethro.”

 

“Boudreaux?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did you speak to anyone directly, or indirectly, about killing Admiral Jenkins—”

 

“No, I did _not_ orchestrate the murder of the Admiral. I did not speak with anyone about such a thing. I did not even think about killing Jenkins. What good would it do me? I can’t vote. I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. I’m certainly not going back into life as a public servant. I do hope you have the rest of your people out looking for Slaw, Dwayne.”

 

Pride sighed. “Not your concern, Hamilton. Do you have any idea why Law might commit murder of a high-ranking Admiral and a candidate for a U.S. Senate seat?”

 

“Slaw was, ah, rather intense at times,” Hamilton said. “He was my bulldog; when someone gave me any problems, I sent Slaw there to straighten them out—not by killing them, Dwayne. Intimidation.”

 

Gibbs and Pride glanced at each other. “Intimidate the hell out of your political opponents,” Pride said.

 

“It worked,” Hamilton replied.

 

“Think he might have tried to intimidate the Admiral on behalf of Boudreaux?”, Gibbs said.

 

Hamilton chuckled. “Jenkins? You _have_ to be joking.”

 

Gibbs and Pride both fixed stares on Hamilton.

 

“Or not,” Hamilton said. “Nobody intimidates Jenkins. Going back to when he was eight and allegedly beat up half-a-dozen fifth graders in boarding school. You don’t get to where he got by being a pushover.”

 

“So, hypothetically, say you wanted to intimidate the Admiral,” Pride said. “How would you go about it, and how would you use Law?”

 

Hamilton pondered the question for a few moments, looking off to the side. Then he turned back to Pride. “I’d go after the family. I’d have sent Slaw after the weakest links. I’d never send him to the Admiral.”

 

“Why not?”, Gibbs asked.

 

“Jenkins would maul him alive.”

 

**Shreveport, Louisiana**

**Federal Bureau of Investigation field office**

**10:33 p.m. CST**

 

“ _What in the hell am I doing here?_ ”, Boudreaux screamed. He stood inside an interrogation room, staring and yelling at LaSalle, McGee and Tenisha Jackson, the special agent in charge for the local FBI office.

 

“You’re a suspect in the murder of the Admiral,” Jackson blurted out. LaSalle did not want her to reveal that bit of information just yet.

 

“You have got to be kidding me!!!”, Boudreaux screamed at Jackson. “You think I killed the man?”

 

“ _They_ do,” Jackson nodded towards the NCIS agents, and turned around to leave. “Have fun, gentlemen.”

 

 _I’m talking to Isler about her when I get back to New Orleans,_ LaSalle said. Jackson had not been very helpful since both NCIS agents arrived in town, and in fact seemed eager to throw them to the wolf, or in this case, the Senator.

 

“Well?”, Boudreaux bellowed. “Ask your damn question or get the hell out of my way.”

 

McGee fell back on a tactic a former colleague once taught him: when other law enforcement agents – like Jackson -- were unhelpful to the point of enraging him, control that rage and channel it into solving the case.

 

“Sit down,” McGee said, sternly.

 

“Excuse me, son?”, Boudreaux replied. He was upset about being here, and not wherever he wanted to be. At 46 years old, he wasn’t that much older than McGee. “I have places to be. And people to talk to. Like the NCIS agent in charge in New Orleans.”

 

“He sent us here,” said LaSalle, who was slowly getting more and more upset himself.

 

“Or Washington. I know people there.”

 

“So do we,” McGee said.

 

“You’re a couple of piss-poor federal cops. If you _counted_ , the FBI agent in charge would’ve vouched for you,” Boudreaux said, his smirk not hiding his contempt for LaSalle and McGee. “Now get the hell out of my way. I have business to—”

 

“ _SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!_ ”, McGee screamed. “ _NOW!_ ”

 

Boudreaux didn’t budge. To his shock, McGee _made_ him budge, and he found himself seated before he realized it.

 

“Watch the door,” McGee said to LaSalle.

 

“On it,” LaSalle replied, putting a chair underneath the doorknob, so no one from the outside could easily enter.

 

McGee walked over to another chair sitting underneath the two-way interrogation mirror, and picked up a folder. He reached into the folder and took out two pictures of the Admiral: the first from his press packet, showing him in full uniform sitting in front of the American flag, and the second from the crime scene. “You do this?”, he said to Boudreaux, pointing to the second picture.

 

“That…that him?” Boudreaux said, wide-eyed. “Dead?”

 

“No, that’s him frolicking through the French Quarter on a Friday night,” LaSalle replied, with heavy sarcasm. “Of course, that’s him, dead.”

 

“And we want to know if you helped him get that way,” McGee added.

 

Boudreaux looked at both agents, and at the photo, and it dawned on him why he was in that interrogation room. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

 

“You making a confession?”, LaSalle said.

 

“I got a pad and pen off the Glamazon’s desk on the way in here,” McGee added, tossing both on the table in front of the Senator. “If the ink runs out, I have an extra pen in my jacket—”

 

“ _I didn’t do it!_ ”, Boudreaux yelled. “I didn’t do a _goddamn_ thing!”

 

McGee reached into the folder and tossed another photo out of Law, from the smartphone video. “Know this guy?”

 

Boudreaux took a deep breath, closed his eyes and exhaled, then repeated the sequence.

 

“Feel free to speak English instead of huffing out your frustration,” LaSalle said. “In fact, we insist.”

 

“That’s Slaw. He’s…” Boudreaux’s voice trailed off.

 

“English, pal,” LaSalle said.

 

“He something to you?”, McGee said.

 

“I’ve worked with him in my campaign for U.S. Senate.”

 

“How long and how closely?”

 

“Since after Hamilton was thrown out of the mayor’s office in New Orleans, and he’s been one of my advisors.”

 

McGee held up the photo with the Admiral’s death mask. “He advise you on this?”

 

“No, no, _no_! Advise me on running the race, who to meet, how to win.”

 

“Again, did he advise you on _that_ ,” LaSalle said, as McGee held up the photo. “You tell him to do that?”

 

“ _Hell_ no! I would _not_ tell Slaw to kill _anybody_! That sonofabitch is crazy. You tell him something like that, he might just take you up on it.”

 

McGee looked over his shoulder at LaSalle, who looked hard at Boudreaux. “Senator. You think Law might be the kind of guy to think of something like that by himself?”

 

“@#$%!”, Boudreaux swore under his breath.

 

“If that’s on account of losing your Senate campaign, we don’t care,” LaSalle said. “All we care about is catching Admiral Jenkins’s murderer.”

 

“Murder,” Boudreaux muttered.

 

“If you were involved in any way, that makes you an accessory. I’d like to remind you as a Louisiana state senator, you would have no immunity under federal law—”

 

“I didn’t kill the guy, I swear,” Boudreaux said, frantically. “I never told him to do anything to Jenkins. Swear on a stack of Bibles.”

 

**February 11, 2018**

**New Orleans**

**NCIS field office**

**12:23 a.m. CST**

 

“My sources in D.C. told me as far as they knew, Jenkins never had anything to do with Hamilton or Boudreaux,” Bishop said.

 

Percy looked up from her phone. “That was LaSalle. Boudreaux all but threw Law under the bus. They’re bringing him back here, and the local FBI is pissed.”

 

“Why would _they_ care?”, Torres asked.

 

“The local agent in charge tried to make Chris and McGee look bad, and she’s steaming that McGee called her out on it and that LaSalle talked with Isler. And even more steamed that Isler read her the riot act, and that Washington’s sending someone down to talk to her.”

 

“She should be glad she didn’t have to deal with Gibbs,” Reeves said.

 

“Speaking of, he and Pride are on their way back here,” Lund added. “Hamilton denied knowledge of the murder, said he hadn’t spoken with Law or Boudreaux since he got thrown in prison.”

 

“So we’re looking for Slaw, and hoping he’s still in-state—” Gregorio said, before turning her head when Plame shouted her name.

 

“Gregorio! We got him!” Plame hit a few keystrokes on his laptop, took the remote and transferred the image from his laptop screen to the overhead monitor. He’s at a Walgreen’s on Canal and Dauphine. Undercover NOPD cop sent this to me just now.”

 

“Let’s roll,” Percy said to Gregorio, Bishop, Lund, Torres and Reeves. The agents headed out the front door towards their vehicles, but Gregorio stopped to turn around towards Plame. “Patton, text Pride and Gibbs.”

 

“Texting them now, and LaSalle and McGee, too,” Plame said, turning his attention back to the live feed that just appeared on his laptop. The feed came from a hidden camera in the cop’s cap, showing Law standing near the pharmacy.

 

For the moment, Law didn’t appear to be going anywhere.

 

“Don’t move,” Plame said. “Ten minutes. Just stay put another ten minutes.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**February 11, 2018**

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**Walgreen’s, Canal and Dauphine Streets**

**12:34 a.m.**

 

All Sebastian Law wanted to do was get away from New Orleans.

 

Walking through the aisles inside the vast drug store, Law knew he was a marked man. The authorities had to be onto him by now, he thought, and his concern now was how, and where, to hide.

 

That’s why he – with a short hairstyle that could charitably be called ‘chopped’ and a short beard that needed a bit of sprucing up – was in the beauty section of Walgreen’s. He stood in front of a row of hair coloring products, with men’s shaving and grooming products in his cart.

 

“Can I help you…sir?”, said one of the store employees on duty. The young woman looked at Law a little suspiciously; he wouldn’t be the first vagrant who came into the store at this time of night, and he wouldn’t be the first vagrant she kicked out onto the street either, if it came to that.

 

“I’m fine,” Law blurted. Already on edge, he wondered if she could be a cop.

 

“ _Sir_ ,” the woman replied, “the men’s section is in Aisle 5—”

 

“ _I know what I’m looking for!_ ”, he snapped. He then realized he needed to be in full control of himself, at least more than he was now, and especially if the woman was some sort of law enforcement officer. “I’m sorry…I…thank you for your concern. I’ve been, uh, to the men’s section already. I’m looking at something I can find, um, here.”

 

“Something to match your pretty brown eyes?”, the woman asked, with a smile and in a slightly sarcastic tone. Law didn’t care. His money was as good as anyone else’s, and with luck, he’d never have to deal with her, or New Orleans, again.

 

“I’m fine, really,” he said, grabbing a bottle of blonde hair coloring off the shelf. He then decided that he had everything he needed, that the toiletries and snacks could wait. He was going right to the checkout counter.

 

Reeves and Lund had already made their way into the store. Lund ‘browsed’ the snacks aisle, Reeves ‘browsed’ the magazine section near the checkout counter. Reeves was the first to spot Law, who turned the corner from the far wall of the store and pushed his small cart towards the counter. “Subject’s heading for the counter now,” he whispered; Lund could hear him in his earpiece, as could Torres standing outside the entrance, and Bishop, Percy and Gregorio waiting outside near the entrance. The NOPD undercover officer and two just-arrived uniformed officers had the rear entrance covered.

 

Law reached the counter and began pulling his items off the cart: 20 disposable razors, two bottles of shaving cream, a bottle of blonde hair coloring, deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and eight bars of soap. He reached into his pocket to pay, pulling out two $50 bills.

 

“Wonder how much cash he has?”, Lund said in a low, but not low enough, voice. Law heard something and turned around. He looked up at a mirror hanging above the entrance that looked out to the interior of the store, and saw someone in the snacks aisle who looked familiar. Law squinted his eyes to get a closer look, and a chill ran down his spine.

 

Law recognized Lund from one of former Mayor Hamilton’s speeches, where Pride and his team made an appearance. Lund, watching Law over the top counter in his aisle, knew he had been made as soon as Law turned around; he ducked from view anyway, too late to keep himself from being seen.

 

 _He works for the Navy cop,_ thought Law as he quickly descended into a panicked state of mind _. $#@%! I’ve been made!_

 

Law stuffed the two $50 bills in his pocket and ran for the door. He dodged Reeves’ attempt to grab him and got ahead of the taller, more muscular man by a few feet.

 

“STOP!!!”

 

Torres, Bishop and Percy yelled in unison at Law, as he dodged Bishop and Gregorio and ran into the street and into traffic.

 

Desperate to get some distance from the federal agents, Law found himself in the path of an oncoming Civic going 45 miles per hour. He thought fast on his feet and, in a move straight out of a Hollywood movie, jumped onto the Civic’s hood as the driver hit her brakes. Law grabbed the windshield wipers to steady himself; a few seconds later, he rolled off the hood towards his left and landed on his feet, then ran towards the other side of the street.

 

“Sonofa—you _see_ that?”, Torres yelled at Gregorio.

 

“Yeah! Just don’t _lose_ him,” she yelled back.

 

Torres and his teammates almost lost Law when he made another out-of-the-blue move: running full sprint into a moving trolley that had its middle doors wide open when they weren’t supposed to be open. Law kicked open the doors on the opposite side as the trolley’s driver began coming to a stop, finding himself in front of an empty storefront on the street corner opposite Walgreen’s.

 

Law looked all around him, saw agents coming towards him, and ran towards what he thought was the path of least resistance: northwest up Canal.

 

He got as far as the entrance to an iHOP restaurant when he felt something hit against his calves, forcing him down to the sidewalk. Law jerked his head back while planting his palms towards the pavement, and saw Torres trying to wrap his arms around Law’s legs. He kicked Torres’s jaw hard with his heel, breaking the agent’s hold, then saw Reeves rushing towards him from his right. Law jumped up, reached into the front of his pants, and pulled out a small can of pepper spray which he proceeded to spray into Reeves’s face; Reeves got his hands up, but not quite in time, catching some of the spray directly into his eyes.

 

Lund ran towards Law’s backside, hoping to catch him unaware, but Law saw the agent from the corner of his eye. Law threw a hard elbow to Lund’s face, briefly knocking Lund unconscious. He turned to go into the restaurant, then felt something hit his back and, two seconds later, a jolt of electricity went through his body.

 

“STAY DOWN!”, yelled Bishop, but Law got back up. Whether it was adrenaline, or desperation, Law wasn’t about to abide her if he could help it.

 

Percy decided this would end now, one way or another.

 

“Lock the doors and get everybody to the back!”, she yelled to the customer standing on the other side of the door, filming the scene with his smartphone. By now, other customers had gathered on the other side of the windows facing the street to watch, and they were yet another reason she didn’t want to use her gun and shoot the bastard unless as a last resort.

 

Law regathered his senses enough to try to get to the door just as the night manager inside began to lock it. Law ran for the doors but was tackled by Percy, causing him to fall forward and hit the pavement just an inch short of the glass.

 

Again, he threw his elbow back, but Percy dodged it and then grabbed it. Bishop, having checked on Lund and Reeves, kicked him hard in his stomach. Gregorio and Torres piled on top of him, and Percy managed to handcuff him.

 

She looked up to a round of applause from the night manager and his customers and employees, several whom had their phones out, filming the whole thing.

 

“Well. Look at you,” Gregorio said to Percy as they pulled Law off the ground, with four NOPD cruisers and an ambulance down the street racing towards their position. “America’s newest YouTube sweetheart.”

 

“Oh boy,” Percy replied, with a touch of sarcasm. “La Salle will never let me live that down.”

 

**New Orleans**

**NCIS field office**

**1:59 a.m.**

 

From the observation room adjacent to the field office’s interrogation room, Pride drank down his third cup of coffee in the past ten minutes, as Gibbs watched Torres and Gregorio drill Law with question after question.

 

For the 29th time, Law repeated what he had said to them, and to Bishop and Percy before: “Pride.”

 

“Think he wants to talk to you, Dwayne,” Gibbs quipped.

 

“Maybe he’ll rethink that once I get in there,” Pride replied, with an edge to his tone. He wanted this bastard in custody, and now that he had him, one way or another, Pride was going to get answers. “Now’s as good a time as any to give him what he wants. You coming?”

 

“Think he’ll talk with me in the room?”

 

“Oh, he’ll talk.”

 

Pride entered the room, with Gibbs right behind him, and Pride nodded to Torres and Gregorio. “Looks like your wish finally came true,” Gregorio told Law, not trying to hide her sarcastic tone.

 

Pride sat down across from Law, with Gibbs leaning along the back wall behind Pride. “He stays, whether you like it or not,” Pride growled.

 

“Fine by me,” Law said.

 

“You wanted me, ‘slaw’. Here I am. You have a confession to make?”

 

Law leaned back, as far as he could with his handcuffs chained to the table. “I did it.”

 

Pride looked at him evenly. “What did you _do_ , exactly?”

 

“You want me to say what I did.”

 

“What I want to _know_ , ‘slaw’, is whether or not you _murdered_ an Admiral of the United States Navy.”

 

Law smirked. “You want me to say that, don’t you, you sanctimonious—”

 

Pride jumped out of his seat and leaned over the table until he was nose-to-nose with Law. Gibbs turned to look back at the agents watching from behind the one-way mirror separating the interrogation and observation rooms.  

 

“Better watch yourself, Pride,” Law said with a smirk. “Your buddy’s right behind you. You snap my neck, he’s there to see you. So’s that camera in the corner. So are those agents behind that window back there. My lawyer’s on her way and she’d be real interested to see the film. So would the media—”

 

“I won’t snap your neck,” Pride growled. “I won’t lay a hand on you. Besides, you’re eager to talk.”

 

“About what, exactly?”

 

Pride stepped back, then sat down in his chair. “The floor is yours, Law.”

 

“Call me Sebastian, _Pride_.”

 

Gibbs, not trying to hide his annoyance any more than Law was hiding his arrogance, walked to the corner of the table. “You kill the Admiral, Law?”

 

“Another member of the Fed Five,” Law said to Gibbs. “One lost his mind, another as crooked as, well, as anybody in Congress, your boss as much of a fu—”

 

Gibbs grabbed the corner and, in one fell swoop, tossed the table to its side, throwing Law out of his chair and onto the floor.

 

Law swore, loudly. “What the hell?” he said over and over, as Pride put the table back in place, and while Gibbs shoved him back into the chair that he had just put upright.

 

“I swear to God I will sue both of your asses and NCIS,” Law yelled. “Where is my lawyer? Did you even contact her?”

 

“She’s delayed,” Pride said, again leaning across the table into Law’s face while Gibbs stood next to the suspect. “She’ll be here. Before she gets here, let’s talk about you and the Admiral.”

 

Law stared at Pride for a full minute, then nodded.

 

“That a confession, Law?”, Gibbs asked. Law looked at him briefly, then turned to Pride, and spit in his face. “Yeah, I killed the Admiral,” he said, before Pride could react.

 

“Talk,” Gibbs said, menacingly into Law’s ear.

 

“You screwed over a lot of people when you put Hamilton in prison,” Law said, staring at Pride. “Me included. Anyone on his staff was toxic, politically. I had to work at a freaking _call center_! People staring at me, _me_ , like I was the devil himself—”

 

“Poor old you,” Pride interjected.

 

“All Hamilton wanted to do was help people—”

 

“Hamilton only wanted to help himself.”

 

“You had a grudge against him from day one and you finally got what you wanted, Dwayne Cassius Pride. King of New Orleans. Blinding yourself to the fact you screwed over hundreds of ‘your’ people. Ever think about them, _King_?”

 

“Every day, and I’m sorry about the men and women who lost their jobs. A hell of a lot more than you are,” Pride replied. “Did you kill Admiral Jenkins because of _Hamilton_? Did he put you up to this in any way?”

 

Law started to get out of his chair. He couldn’t move due to Gibbs’s hand pushing down hard on his right shoulder. He glared at Gibbs before turning his gaze back to Pride.

 

“Pride, it took me every favor I had to get an interview with Craig Boudreaux, and he took me on his campaign at a distance,” Law said. “I worked for him but not publicly. Politics, you know. Hell, as long as he paid me I didn’t really care. Got me out of that damn call center, anyway. Boudreaux was motivated to get out of Louisiana. He _had_ a shot.”

 

“What’s this have to do with the Admiral?”, Pride asked.

 

“The moment those reports about Jenkins considering a run hit the political blogs and Twitter, Boudreaux was screwed. People supporting his campaign told me they were switching to Jenkins on the spot. I did the math. Boudreaux wouldn’t even make it to the primary—”

 

“And you’d be out of a job. Again.”

 

“And that pissed me off. I wasn’t going back to a call center, reading from some damn script full of quack psychology. I wasn’t going on welfare. So I decided to eliminate the competition.”

 

Law looked at Pride, waiting for him to ask him how he ‘eliminated the competition’, and then looked at Gibbs. “Do I have to say everything?” Law said after looking at the window along the far wall. “I spiked the bastard’s whiskey bottle. Potassium chloride and calcium gluconate. Read about it online, on the dark web. Figured it was worth a shot. Worked like a charm.”

 

“Didn’t work well enough,” Gibbs said.

 

“Maybe it was that damn kid hiding in the cabin,” Law mused. “Maybe I should’ve—”

 

Before Gibbs could react, Pride jumped over the table, grabbed Law by the collar and pulled him over the table as far as his handcuffs would allow.

 

“You should have done _what_?”, Pride said in a low, angry tone. When Percy opened the door, he turned his head and gave a look that led her to step back outside and shut the door behind her. “You better not be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

 

“I wouldn’t kill a kid,” Law said, although neither Gibbs nor Pride were fully convinced of that. “I already did what I went there to do.”

 

“What _was_ that, Law?”, Pride said, still nose-to-nose with Law.

 

“Come on—”

 

“For the record.”

 

“I went there to kill Admiral Jenkins. Now would you like to know why?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Put me down.”

 

Gibbs grabbed Law’s forearm and put him back in his chair. “Talk,” Gibbs told him.

 

Law looked Pride in the eye. “You.”

 

“Me,” Pride said.

 

“You. You took my job, my career, my life, when Hamilton went down. I had nothing to live for. No one was going to take a chance on me. When it became apparent Jenkins was going to run for Senate and win that seat I decided to take him out.”

 

“Because of me.”

 

“I knew _you_ would get the case. It was the closest way I could get back at you, Pride. Kill one of those Navy officers you hold in such high regard. Get caught by you. Get put into prison—”

 

“ _Prison_? Don’t tell me you did this to get into _prison_ —”

 

“No, I did it to get back at you,” Law said, flippantly. “But prison’s a helluva lot better deal than $12 bucks an hour at a call center.”

 

Pride kept his eyes locked on Law. At the moment, he honestly didn’t know if he was looking at a competent murderer or a madman.

 

Law admits to killing Jenkins out of selfishness: Boudreaux promised Law a spot on his staff, and Law knew the challenger could never win against the Admiral.

 

**Epilogue**

**February 13, 2018**

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**Orleans Parish Prison**

**2:19 p.m.**

 

“ _Are_ you crazy, Slaw?”

 

Law sat in the visitor’s center, handcuffed to his table, but he wasn’t staring at Pride, nor any other NCIS agent or law enforcement official.

 

“I have got to hand it to you, Law, you’ve got balls,” said Law’s visitor, dressed in a grey business suit and red tie. “If you used your _brain_ , you might not be here.”

 

Law said nothing.

 

“I could have still used you,” the man in the grey suit told him. “I can’t use you now, not any longer.”

 

The visitor got up from his chair, making his way towards the door, where a prison guard waited on the opposite side. He stopped just before he knocked on the door to be let out, then turned back to Law. “Good luck, and…watch your back.”

 

Law didn’t try to turn his head to watch Eric Barlow, the Assistant United States Attorney General, walk out of the room. He was beyond caring, about anything and anyone, especially himself.

 

**February 14, 2018**

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**NCIS field office**

**7:24 a.m.**

 

“Sebastian’s fine,” Pride said as he cooked himself some eggs in the kitchenette. “No aftereffects from the chase from the other day.”

 

Pride had his smartphone on speaker and was talking to Gibbs, who was already back at his desk, at NCIS headquarters in Washington. Gibbs and his team had returned to D.C. the day before, after Boudreaux formally announced his resignation from the campaign and Law had been transferred to Orleans Parish Prison to await sentencing for Admiral Jenkins’ murder.

 

“How is Reeves doing?”, Pride asked Gibbs.

 

“ _The same,”_ Gibbs told him. “ _Said he’d been through far worse. Take a lot worse, too, to take him down._ ”

 

“I have no doubt about that, Jethro,” Pride said, putting just the right amount of pepper on the eggs. “You try that gumbo recipe I gave you yet—”

 

“King!”, said LaSalle as he burst into the kitchenette. “Something on TV you need to see. Right now.”

 

“Gibbs, I’m taking my phone with me,” Pride said, grabbing the phone as he quickly made his way to the squad room. The main monitor showed the feed from the local CBS television affiliate. LaSalle, the only other team member in the office this early in the day, turned up the volume. A reporter stood outside the front entrance to the Orleans Parish Prison.

 

\--Eyewitness News has learned that Sebastian Law, a former staff member of Mayor Douglas Hamilton who confessed to the murder of U.S. Navy Admiral Samuel Jenkins, was found dead this morning in his jail cell. Sources tell us a formal announcement will be made within the hour—

 

Pride felt his phone buzz in his hand, and saw an incoming call. “I’ll call you back, Jethro,” he said, disconnecting from Gibbs to take the call. It was the warden of the Orleans Parish Prison, a man who had once been partnered with Pride when they were both with NOPD. Pride listened, thanked the warden, and disconnected.

 

“Law hung himself,” he told LaSalle. “No note. No suspects. They’ve just started their investigation, but right now they’re looking at it as a suicide.”

 

“You don’t think it was a suicide,” LaSalle said.

 

Pride paused. “Whatever it was, Christopher, it’s not for us to investigate. Our job was done when we got justice for Admiral Jenkins by putting Law behind bars.”

 

“And what if someone at Orleans Parish Prison decided to dish out their own brand of ‘justice’?”

 

“Unless it sheds more light on why the Admiral died, it’s not our case, anymore.”

 

**_\--phoof--_ **

 

 


End file.
